


Rolling in the Deep

by MystradeSexyTimes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Paternal Lestrade, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MystradeSexyTimes/pseuds/MystradeSexyTimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is Greg Lestrade having fun yet? NO.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rolling in the Deep

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after seeing "Different for Girls" for about the billionth time and having the desire for a story where Lestrade was as useless on rollerblades as Paul Prentice had been. A friend gave me an idea for a continuation of this fic, but I decided to take her idea and use it for another fic entirely. And so I shall post this here.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade would have preferred to just kill himself, but he put that thought out of his mind. Anyway, if he was lucky, his demise would be assured very soon, because he was about to break his bloody neck.

Just as he felt his feet begin to skid beyond his ability to control them, a slightly built blonde girl threaded through a clump of skaters and sighed exasperatedly.

“Daaaaaaddddddy, come on! You’re so bloody slow!”

“Oi Catherine! Watch the language!” he barked and shakily lurched to a stop near a wall. His 10-year-old daughter just rolled her eyes at him and zipped off into the crush of other more fluid rollerbladers.

Greg was able to spot her blonde pigtails under the lavender helmet she wore as she and her friends zigzagged in and out of the crowds, giggling and racing each other with a speed that worried him only because he knew that if something happened, he’d not be able to move fast enough to help. In fact, he’d probably be on his arse before he could take two steps.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbled, gripping the edge of the wall and pulling himself upright. This was _not_ how he'd expected to spend his weekend with Cate. He’d hoped for some dad-daughter time where they could talk about school and so forth. When she’d begged him to come to this birthday party, he could tell how much it meant to her and so he’d agreed, but he’d never thought he would have to strap on those wobbly things!

Apparently it was a “rule,” as the mother of the birthday girl had chirped to him. “Yes, even you, Mr. Lestrade!” the fussy bat had said. “Now go on then. You fire a gun, don’t you? Rollerblades will be much easier to manage by comparison.”

Easier? Maybe. But no less lethal. He’d nearly gone over on his arse in his first shaky steps. Cate had been highly embarrassed after a few abortive attempts to teach him the ropes, and she hadn't hidden her relief when he'd told her to go on with her friends.

“Gregory. I _thought_ that was you.”

Lestrade spun around and just managed to keep his legs from slipping out from beneath him and cracking his head open on the hard surface of the track. And then he almost wished he _had_ hit his head, because at least then there’d be some excuse as to why he was seeing Mycroft Holmes, of all people,  in front of him on a pair of silver-and-black inline skates.

 _That_ would have almost been incredible if it weren’t for the rest of his outfit. No suit, three-piece or otherwise. No umbrella, either. Mycroft was dressed in athletic attire, complete with helmet, gloves, shin guards and elbow pads. It all looked normal enough but Greg suspected they might have been reinforced in kevlar - well, the trousers at least. He was flushed and there was sweat on his face. When he took off his helmet, Greg could see that his hair was damp with sweat, too, and it was starting to go curly.

“Mycroft?” Lestrade looked the government official up and down. “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

“I should think that’s rather obvious. I’m taking a bit of exercise,” said Mycroft, mopping his glistening forehead in emphasis. “I’d ask the same of you, because your presence is not quite as apparent – unless your purpose is to hold up this section of the wall.”

“You’re so bloody hilarious,” said Greg sourly. “I _hate_ these ruddy things. I’m here for my daughter, and she and I are going to have a good talk after this on why Daddy needs all his limbs in working order and all that.”

“Oh come now, Gregory. This is a fine way to get into condition. It’s much better on the joints than running, for example. Your daughter is wise beyond her years.”

“I think you’ll be changing your tune if _you_ ever spent a weekend with her,” said Greg wearily. “I thought this would be a good visit, but of course the queen bee or whatever they call the popular girls in school these days, was having a birthday this weekend, and of course it was a rollerblading party outdoors and _of fucking course the bloody parents had to join in with this stupid shite, as well_.”

He rubbed his hands through his hair. “I mean, Christ, this wasn’t even in style when most of this lot was born!”

“Actually, my assistant told me that while the visibility decreased, inline skating never went completely out of fashion,” said Mycroft. “As evidenced by all the people over the age of 13 in this park. All of whom are exhibiting a great facility at this activity.”

“Except me,” muttered Lestrade. “I never saw much use for it. I never fancied rollerskating back when the wheels were two and two side-by-side. But at least then you stood a chance of going more than a few meters before going arse over elbow. I reckoned I’d come here for Cate’s sake, maybe chat a bit with the other parents, and then that would be that. But _nooooo_ …”

“I do believe the woman in the unfortunate purple bomber jacket would be rather pleased to converse with you.” Mycroft’s voice was dry.

Greg looked followed Mycroft's line of sight, and he groaned. Said woman was engaged in a conversation with another parent, one who looked bored out of her mind. The woman's jacket was a rather seizure-inducing shade of purple and made her blonde hair look greenish in the sunlight. As if she'd sensed he was looking, she turned her head sharply toward him, fluttering what he suspected were false eyelashes.

“Yeah … I … that was … um. She's a nice woman, I suppose, but a bit … full-on. I mean, we’ve never even met and she was pretty much telling me her life story.”

“Not surprising,” said Mycroft. “When your desire for sex is inversely proportional to the amount you’re currently receiving, that tends to happen.”

Greg winced. “I could’ve done without knowing that, you know. Her son’s in my daughter’s maths class. It’s almost certain I’ll see her again … somewhere.”

"Oh yes, she's rather hoping you will be _seeing_ her again - less-clothed and in a more ... private setting, if she has any say in the matter."

"Uh, no." Greg felt his knees begin to wobble and he grasped the wall tighter. "I could've done without knowing _that_ , too! Cor, you're as bad as Sherlock sometimes."

“My apologies,” said Mycroft, not sounding very sorry at all. “But now you can’t stop thinking about it, correct?”

“Yeah, and it’s _your_ fault. _Thanks_.” Lestrade was glaring. “Look, she’s a bit of all right, and it wasn’t going over my head that she was trying to chat me up, but I just wasn’t keen. I reckoned I’d come over here for a breather and just barely made it. It’s like I’m on buttered stilts walking across a ice pond that has an oil slick.”

“Very interesting imagery,” said Mycroft with a wry grin. “I, too, was less than … shall we say … _proficient_ when I began. My assistant took me in hand, however, and showed me the way.”

Greg chuckled. He knew a lot of men who’d like to be taken “in hand” by Mycroft’s variously named, dishy personal assistant.

“Yeah? Lucky you.”

“I rather suspect you’re paying me back for my remark about your purple-jacketed admirer,” said Mycroft with a tight smirk. “But in point of fact, I _did_ mean it literally.”

Lestrade’s laughter turned into a sharp coughing jag.

“What?”

“She took me in hand,” said Mycroft blandly but with a glint in his eyes that suggested he knew where Lestrade’s mind had gone. “That is, she led me around the track by the hand, allowing me to become comfortable with the motions of the skates and allowing me to find my natural balance point. Once she was certain that I had the gist of it, she let go and allowed me to continue on my own. There were some accidents, of course, but not so many as there would have been if I’d not had her steady hand to guide me.”

“Brilliant,” grumbled Lestrade. “Mycroft, as happy as I am that you had a gorgeous woman to guide you sweetly and gently around this bloody obstacle course, can I remind you that _my_ options are limited to my little girl – who right now is pretending not to know who the fuck I am – and the woman across the oval, who thought I was chatting her up when I asked her for the bleeding time! God knows what she’ll think if I ask her to hand-hold me for an hour while I get my legs under me.”

“Quite right. I think she’d much rather have _your_ legs under –”

“No.” Greg grumbled through clenched teeth. “Just … wherever you were going with that sentence … _no_.”

“You’re wrong, at any rate,” said Mycroft. “You _do_ have another option.”

Greg peered at him in suspicion. “What? Or should I say, _who_? Someone from my department? If you think that I can get _Sally_ down here or something …”

“No, no. This is an option a bit more expedient and less potentially damaging to your career.”

“ _Less_ potentially damaging?”

Mycroft smiled. Greg’s eyes narrowed. Mycroft went on smiling.

“Wait.” Greg was starting to see the light, and it was making him sweat worse than Mycroft was doing. “You _can’t_ mean …”

Mycroft held a hand out to him. “Come along, Detective Inspector. Time is wasting.”

Greg looked at the proffered hand, then at Mycroft’s face. The expression was patient and a bit pensive. Grave eyes. Lips drawn in a small frown.

“You _do_. You _do_ mean …” Greg took a deep breath. “Listen, I … er … appreciate the offer, but –”

“Really, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft reprovingly. “You’re an intelligent man. I know you are not averse to asking for – and accepting – help when it is needed and offered. Your work with my brother –”

“That’s a bit different. First off, working with him is not always, strictly speaking, by _choice –_ ”

That got a smile out of Mycroft and he tilted his head as if conceding the point.

“ – Second, usually our work involves corpses, and whatever help I need from your brother, he generally _isn’t_ holding my hand –”

“We wouldn’t be … hmmm … he ‘generally’ isn’t?”

Greg glanced away. “Well, there was this _one_ time. He was trying to prove a point and got a bit carried away. The upside was that I did find out that indelible ink _does_ come off your skin. Eventually.”

“As fascinating as I find this walk down memory lane as pertains my brother,” said Mycroft dryly, “I’m not sure what this has to do with the offer on hand.”

Lestrade glowered. Mycroft’s lips twitched.

“I assure you I’m not punning on purpose.”

“ _Right_ …”

“At any rate, we wouldn’t be … _holding hands,_ ” said Mycroft. “I’d be holding _on_ to your hand whilst you get your bearings and acquaint yourself to the motion of the skates.”

“Mycroft …” Greg sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Look. Look around us. All the people above the age of 13 who are holding hands or holding _on_ to each others hands, or whatever you reckon it … they’re _couples._ ”

They both looked around the oval track. There were a few uni-aged pairs laughing as they spun round the course and some middle-aged husband-and-wife teams that skated determinedly around the younger folks.

Greg swept an arm out in dramatic fashion, as if to say: _You see_? Mycroft stared for a moment longer and shrugged.

“My assistant and I are decidedly _not_ a couple.”

“Yeah, but I’m sure everyone who saw you thought so,” Lestrade said. “Pretty girl … older bloke …”

“She might well have been my daughter, in that case.”

“Give over." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You’re not _that_ old. I mean you don’t _look_ even remotely old.”

“Why thank you, Detective Inspector. What a lovely sentiment.”

Greg looked over at the man. His voice was slightly mocking, but the smile was genuine. He truly was flattered, and Greg felt … strange. His ears were burning, and bloody _hell,_ Mycroft was holding out his hand again.

“I just don’t think I can do that, in front of all this crowd. People’ll talk.” Greg’s eyes darted around. “My daughter’s here. These are her friends. I …”

The smile slowly faded from Mycroft’s face, and he lowered his hand.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “You’ll forgive the imposition, I’m sure.”

 _Fuck._ Mycroft’s voice was like iron doors slamming shut. Iron doors with bloody deadbolts on them. Greg wanted the smile back. It had been nice ...

“I … it wasn’t … I just …” Greg ran his fingers through his hair. “I mean … I don’t want …”

“You don’t wish people to draw conclusions associating us in … a romantic sense,” said Mycroft quietly. “I quite understand why that would be distasteful –”

“I didn’t _say_ that …” Greg quickly shook his head. “It’s just that things with Cate and me are on shaky ground as it is - Oh Christ, now _I’m_ doing it!”

“Pardon?”

“I’m punning. Get it? _Shaky ground_ …? Me on these fucking deathtraps? Er …”

Greg looked down and sighed. Mycroft was staring at him intently, but he wasn’t smiling.

“Any road, Cate doesn’t entirely get what happened with me and her mum. Seeing me wobbling round holding hands with a bloke … I’ll have a lot of explaining to do, and …”

“Quite all right. I do understand,” said Mycroft. “I should be getting back to my program. I have three more laps to go. Good afternoon, Detective Inspector.”

Before Greg could respond, Mycroft had gracefully merged with the crowd, lost amongst the swirling mass. And as hard as Greg looked, he couldn’t find him again.

He saw Cate at the other end of the oval, laughing with her friends as they joined hands and whirled around in a dizzying circle. It looked like she was having fun, and he grinned, glad that at least _one_ of them was.

Especially since, as he noticed with a sinking heart, the woman in purple was striding toward him determinedly, her mobile in hand and a come-hither smirk on her face. And _now,_ there was nowhere for him to run - skate - whatever.

Greg looked almost desperately around and he thought he saw the silver-and-black skates among a group of young professionals making their way around the track, having a race of some sort. When the group had thinned out, Greg could make out - barely - the darkish auburn hair. Mycroft had slowed down and was looking at something on his mobile.

Without looking at his persistent admirer, who was just a few gliding steps away, Greg hared off after Mycroft. He gritted his teeth as he pumped his arms and got into the the thicket of skaters as if he'd been born with the fucking things on his feet. Greg was amazed that he was able to stay upright for more than a minute, and he found that going faster helped him to maintain his balance.

He caught his name being called and then a hiss of disappointment directly behind him, but he pretended not to hear. Mycroft was at the edge of the oval now, out of the way of other skaters. Greg saw his fingers moving over the mobile and he reckoned he was keying in a text.

"Mycroft?" he huffed when got close. "Oi, look ... maybe I can -"

Greg felt the change as soon as the dark head started to turn. When Mycroft glanced over at him, surprised, Greg's legs, so steady a second before, began to twitch. The panic bubbled in him when he felt his right foot turn sharply inward whilst his other foot dragged along the ground. He thrust his arms uselessly out at his sides just as his legs shot out from under him and the ground and the sky abruptly changed places.

_Oh ... fu -_

_  
_

(*)

 

The doctor's bedside manner had been shit.

He'd droned on and on about how there were dozens of people who came through A&E each year after pulling such "foolish stunts" like nipping about on bikes or on skates or on fucking pogo sticks without the proper equipment.

To hear the old coot tell it, these folks all had come in with their brains leaking out of their eyeballs, barely clinging to life, and the A&E doctors didn't have the expertise to save them, unlike _him_ and his hand-picked staff in their private surgery.

He'd said the last bit quite a few times, with a little self-important eyebrow waggle each time. Greg reckoned that he was supposed to jump off the hospital bed and kiss the bloke's feet and thank him for saving him from the horrors of NHS care, but his arm hurt too fucking much for all that.

"You're a bit old for joyriding," the doctor chided, adjusting the sling that propped up Lestrade's broken right arm. "And I'm to understand your _child_ was with you -"

"She had a helmet on and pads and all," Greg said, grinding his teeth at the pain in his arm. The rest of it - the scraped flesh on his cheek and the gash on his left calf throbbed a bit - but it felt like someone was sticking a heated knife right into his elbow.

"I'm not stupid. I wouldn't've let her on that track without being kitted out properly."

"But you couldn't spare a thought for your own preparations." The doctor clucked and shook his head. "And I'm given to understand you are at New Scotland Yard? Dear Lord. I hope you're not as reckless at your job as you are in your leisure time, Mr. Lestrade."

"I wouldn't think I was," said Lestrade with a dark glare, "otherwise I think I'd've been dead a few times over by now."

The doctor narrowed his eyes at him and half-sneered. "Quite. Well, you're all fixed up. You'll have to take some potent painkillers, so I do suggest you take a day or two off from work to start, and then restrict yourself to desk duty until the bone mends."

Greg fought the impulse to curse. It would be just _brilliant_ being chained to his desk for six weeks. That also meant Dimmock would be riding herd on most of the active cases. Greg imagined his team - not to mention Sherlock - would absolutely _love_ that.

"It was a simple fracture, so your arm should heal quite nicely on its own. The stitches in your leg are self-dissolving. Simply dress the wound each day after you shower. Of course _do_ endeavor not to get your cast wet."

"Yeah," mumbled Greg, his face flushing. All those years on the pitch, and not one broken bone, but an hour of skating had made him look as if he'd been in a bloody war zone.

"Well, you're free to go, Mr. Lestrade." The doctor stepped back and dusted his hands as if he'd just finished a particularly arduous afternoon of gardening. "Do _try_ be careful from now on. I would hate to see you back in my surgery in the future."

"That makes two of us," muttered Greg as the nurse helped him down off the bed and into a wheelchair - doctor's orders, apparently. She sniggered softly but got her face in order when the doctor gave her a sharp look.

"Anyway, thanks again."

"Mmph." The doctor was giving him a disdainful look. " _You_ are a friend of Mr. Holmes? Very interesting. _Very_ interesting indeed."

Greg didn't want to probe into that statement very much. He didn't want to probe very much into anything, except the bloody cast, because already his plaster-encased forearm was itching.

He tried not to think about it as the nurse wheeled him down a corridor and out toward a quiet, private waiting room fitted out with a telly the size of a small closet, several comfortable chairs and a plush couch upon which sat a very tall, dark-haired man and a very short, blonde-haired girl. They were both looking down at something the tall man held in his hand.

At the sound of slightly squeaking wheels rolling across polished wood, they looked up in unison.

"Daddy!"

Cate bounded up and ran toward him. Her eyes widened at the cast and sling. "Are you okay?"

"Broken arm. A few scrapes and bruises. Nothing serious." Greg hoped that his smile didn't belie how much pain he was in. "Your old man's tough. I'll be up and around in no time."

"Everyone saw you fall," said Cate, sounding sympathetic. "I was really scared."

" _Christ_. I'm sorry, baby."

Greg felt shame and anger rush through him. He'd not only managed to bang himself up, but he'd frightened his little girl and probably humiliated her in front of her friends in the bargain.

"I thought I had the hang of it, but I just ... I'm so sorry, sweet."

"Ms. Loffler said you weren't moving. Reilly laughed about it. I punched him."

"Catherine!"

"Well, he shouldn't've laughed," she said matter-of-factly, with a lofty head toss that reminded him of her mother. "Ms. Loffler wanted to give you ... um ... mouth-to-mouth re-rescu-resuc ... _what was it again_ , Mr. Mycroft?"

" _Resuscitation,_ my dear," said Mycroft, leaving the couch to join them. He was still in his athletic wear, but instead of skates, he wore tightly laced black trainers.  Dark socks stretched up his long calves, accentuating the paleness of his skin and the freckles dotted there.

"Ms. Loffler was _very_ eager to perform that particular procedure, in fact."

Greg's neck itched. Loffler ... i.e. Ms. Purple bomber jacket.

"Er ... did she? I mean ..." He bit his lips. "Uh ..."

"No." Mycroft was just barely _not-_ smiling. "As it was clear that you were breathing just fine on your own, that would have been rather superfluous. Your arm, however, was projecting at an angle that wasn't at all normal, and it was easy to see that was the major injury. You did briefly lose consciousness on the way to the car, but that was due, I would imagine, more to the pain in your arm than to any possible head trauma."

"Mr. Mycroft carried you!" Cate looked up at the tall man admiringly. "And he was _skating_! He carried you out and he was skating, Daddy! People took pictures!"

Greg glanced up at Mycroft in mild alarm. The teasing little _not-grin_ had dropped off his face and he looked somewhat nonplussed.

"Ahem. Yes, well, it was imperative to get you immediate medical assistance," said Mycroft, who was studying some fascinating spot on the far wall. "That's why I opted to bring you to a private surgery rather than the local A&E. You'd likely _still_ be waiting to be seen, I'm afraid. The doctor here is an old acquaintance, and I knew you'd receive a high level of care."

"It was so cool!" Cate bubbled. "Gemma asked her Daddy why _he_ couldn't skate like that. We saw Mr. Mycroft earlier, because he had on the new Fortuna 3000s and they go _so_ fast - they're not even in shops here yet. James says they're only in Japan right now! Why didn't you tell me Mr. Mycroft was your friend?"

"Oh. Um." Greg wriggled a bit in the chair. "I guess I ..."

"Your father didn't see me in the park until after you'd arrived," said Mycroft smoothly. "And he was trying very hard to ensure that you had fun at the party."

"But it would have been even _more_ fun if _you_ had been there!" Cate's eyes shone. "Daddy, did you know Mr. Mycroft was at Prince William and Duchess Catherine's wedding? He was just showing me all the pictures on his mobile! He was dancing with Prince Harry! And with the _Queen_!"

Greg raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. "With Prince Harry? Really?"

"It was a conga line." Mycroft looked somewhat pained. "And, well ... Her Majesty does love a good waltz."

"Do you promise to send me the pictures? Especially the one with Prince Harry standing on the table?" Cate looked pleadingly at Mycroft. "I'll only show them to Gemma and Cecily and Tess. _Please_?"

"Of course. And I _do_ think I have one of the happy couple exchanging a rather sweet kiss that _didn't_ make it into the local newspapers. I'll see if I can't find it."

Cate nearly squealed in delight, and Greg had to grin. Unlike his brother, Mycroft could charm - that much was certain. That skill had to come with being in government - "minor" position or not.

"Shall we get you back to your flat, Gregory?" asked Mycroft. "You likely want to have a lie-down. Your prescription has been filled and it's best you get some rest."

"Right." Greg sighed in regret. "Cate, sweetheart, we'd better call your mum and tell her that we'll have to cut the weekend short."

"No!" Cate looked stricken. "Do I _have_ to go, Daddy? Can't I stay with you and Mr. Mycroft?"

"I don't think your old Dad'll be up to doing too much," said Greg with a regretful frown. "I ..."

He trailed off, squinting at the floor, as his daughter's words echoed in his pain-addled brain.

_Wait ... stay with me AND Mr. Mycroft? What the bloody hell?_

Greg glanced up at Mycroft, who gave him a half-apologetic shrug in reply.

" _Mr._ Mycroft likely has a lot going on today, love," said Greg, turning back to his daughter. "He probably has other places to be right now. Let's see if we can find a taxi ..."

"Nonsense, Gregory," said Mycroft with a curt shake of the head. "There's no need for that. My car can drop you both off at your flat. It's no trouble at all. Can you walk or do you wish to take the chair out to the car park?"

"I can walk. Leg's a bit gammy, but _it's_ not broken. I'll be all right."

"Right. Might I help?" Mycroft held out a hand, but then lowered it slightly. "Or can you manage on your own?"

Greg looked at his daughter's beaming face and up at Mycroft's impassive one. He saw the outstretched hand again and recalled the events of the early afternoon. What might've happened if he'd _just taken the man's ruddy hand_? He might've been laughed out of the fucking park. Or someone might've said rude things to them.

Or he might've wondered - just as he was wondering now - why just being near Mycroft Holmes seemed to make his skin prickle and the sweat bead on his brow. Neither of those were particularly _bad_ sensations. Just ... unexpected.

He certainly would've escaped the busted arm and bruised kneecaps, that was certain. And maybe learned just why so many people liked to rollerblade, after all. And he might have even been able to introduce a _friend_ to Cate much earlier ... one she thought was unbearably cool, it seemed.

Greg glanced into Mycroft's face and smiled slightly. He reached his good hand out and lightly grasped Mycroft's wrist.

"I could use a hand up. Thanks."

Mycroft's answering smile was much like the one he'd flashed when Greg had told him he did not look old enough to be his assistant's father. Greg ducked his head, not sure why his cheeks were burning all of a sudden.

He gave a small nod and then braced himself as Mycroft pulled him gently to his feet. He swayed forward, nearly knocking his forehead into Mycroft's neck, before he righted himself to stand uncertainly on legs that thankfully weren't moving in directions he didn't mean for them to.

"Are you sure it's no trouble? Running us down to mine, I mean?" asked Greg. "Don't want to take you out of your way."

"It's quite all right. I've nothing on tonight and we're out in Hampstead, so I'm already rather on the wrong end of the city as it is."

Greg nodded slowly, thinking. He looked down at his daughter.

"Hungry, Poppet? I don't suppose you got around to getting any cake or anything like that before we left."

"Can we get takeaway?

"Chinese or pizza?"

"Mmmm ... Chinese! But only if we get to eat with the chopsticks."

"Deal." Greg looked at Mycroft. "You like Chinese?"

The dark-haired man looked startled. "I ... yes, of course."

"And I know _you_ know how to use chopsticks." Greg half-smiled. "Maybe you could even teach me a thing or two. Do you fancy egg-fried rice? It's me and Cate's favorite."

Mycroft just stared at him. Greg chuckled beneath his breath and leaned close.

"Yeah, I'm inviting you to dinner," he murmured. "For one thing, I need to thank you for not letting Ms. Loffler give me ... mouth-to-mouth. For a second, Cate likes you. And for a third ..."

... _So do I ..._

Greg blinked. _What? But I'm not ... but he's ... but it ... what the bloody hell? Are they_ sure _I didn't hit my head?_

"Uh, and for a third ... we always over-order, so ..." Greg took a breath. "Anyway. Will you? It's not fancy, just a regular takeaway spot, and my flat's not a palace, but it's clean, and ..."

Mycroft smoothed down his hair as they walked slowly out to the car park. "Well, if you're sure I wouldn't be intruding -"

"- We could watch _Tangled_!"

"Honey, we watched that _last_ night ..."

"But it was _so good_. Have you ever seen it, Mr. Mycroft?"

"I don't believe so -"

"- It's _the best_! Mr. Mycroft, what is  _your_ favorite film?"

"Hmmm, quite possibly _The Madness of King George._ "

" _Was_ he really mad?"

"I'm afraid so. It was quite a tragedy."

"But _why_ did he go mad?"

"Well, my dear, that's a rather long and sad story. You see ..."

Greg grinned disbelievingly as Cate and Mycroft chattered away as they walked toward Mycroft's waiting car. He glanced over at them periodically and sighed inwardly.  Just as when he'd strapped on those bloody skates, he had no bloody idea what he was getting himself into. But at least _this_ \- whatever the hell _this_ turned out to be - had greater potential for a hell of a softer landing.


End file.
